


To Walk in Dark Places

by Muccamukk



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Arguing, Gen, My First Fanfic, Politics, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-05
Updated: 2002-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-07 18:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 22,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/pseuds/Muccamukk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forty years before the Fellowship, Denethor is captured by the forces of the Dark Lord. Aragorn must journey into the Land of Mordor to rescue him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I wrote this fic over several years and it was the first thing I ever posted online. When I started it, I was not a very experienced writer. I later revised it, and the later chapters tend to be stronger, but technically, it's not my best writing, by far. I still stand by the characterisation though.
> 
> A big thank you to Envinyatar for all her beta reading efforts.
> 
> Timeline Note: This story takes place during the winter of 2979-80 in the Third Age of Middle-Earth.

Saruman the White, Leader of the Istari, Head of the Council of the Wise, sat thinking in the darkest chamber of the Tower of Orthanc. In recent days, he had spent much of his time in deep contemplation, and his thoughts were troubled.

He had many causes for worry. His search for a certain Ring of Power was not going very well. He knew that the spies of Sauron might be closer than he was. He had bought time by leading the Council of the Wise to attack his rival, but the Dark Lord's servants were on the move again. The White Wizard was no nearer to the One Ring. _Perhaps if I used the palantír_, he thought but then shook his head; _it is too dangerous; I know not what has become of the other six._ No, he would wait and watch. In time, the Ring would reveal itself to its new and rightful master.

If he could keep that thrice cursed Wizard from learning of his true designs. Fortunately, Gandalf seemed to be content to skulk about the backward lands of the Halflings. Perhaps he had grown unduly fond of their pipeweed and no longer cared.

And then there were the Children of Eorl, who were not exactly co-operating with his plans for them. The Rohirrim may well be a crude and primitive people, but they had a fierce independence that went unmatched even in Gondor. They seemed perfectly content to live, breed and die in their rude thatched huts. He had told them that with his influence, they might have lives of comfort and order. They did not seem that interested. All the Horse lords cared for was their herd.

But that too was only a matter of waiting. Every generation of men grew weaker than the last. Soon they would fall to his will.

It was but a single man that caused his current concerns. The alias he was using at the moment was Nashir. But he had travailed under many names over his forty-some years of life, each one causing the wizard more grief than the last. In Rohan, he had begun to turn the people against Saruman. After that, he had saved Gondor from her enemies. There could be found only rumours of what he had done in Harad and the East. However, the Wizard felt sure that whatever he had been doing, it would not prove helpful. Now, after almost twenty years of wandering, Nashir was returning to his home in the North. Once there, he could not be touched, not safely anyway. From what his sources in the North told him, worse might well be coming. No other man had the ability and the authority to rally his race against the Wizard.

Saruman had decided that he had best rid himself of this troublemaker before he could act on any plans. He could not of course do anything personally. Nashir had many friends, some of them not unversed in the powers of wizardry. He knew that the Grey Pilgrim in particular would be trouble if he investigated his pawn's untimely death.

The obvious solution had been to hire assassins. They were plentiful enough in the Southern regions of the world, and it was easy to keep his name out of it. The manner of men that he employed preferred not to use real names.

He had many agents in that part of the world, as in all others, and they had made the arrangements for him. The assassins were said to be the best, four well-practised brigands who made a living off the deaths of others. On a winter's night several weeks earlier, five of them had attacked Nashir in a back alley.

They were all dead, now.

As was the agent who had hired them.

The White Wizard still had an irritatingly alive problem.

Thus, Saruman was sitting alone in his darkened chambers brooding. He considered Nashir's weaknesses. He didn't have many; he was a skilled warrior, a brilliant tactician and a gifted speaker. If that wasn't enough, he seemed to have an uncanny sixth sense that warned him of hidden enemies. He could see the true hearts of men just by catching them with a piercing grey glance.

Truth be told, in all his meditations he had only found two potentially fatal flaws. Nashir had an endless need to prove himself worthy of the prize he sought, and a stubborn code of honour.

Yet, those two things were enough.

It would need a little cunning and patience, not to mention the use of many of his spies and agents, but he in the end would succeed

The problem of Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the last heir of Elendil, would be solved before the first flower of spring opened.


	2. Of Drunks and Discoveries

Aragorn ducked as a stoneware mug flew over his head. It was not aimed at him, but at a swarthy soldier of Harad across the tent. It missed its intended target by about two yards, waking a neutral patron from his drunken stupor. The ranger lost his own mug of sickly-sweet Haradrim wine to the resulting brawl.

This place was usually one of the best places to gather information. Within these canvas walls common soldiers and junior officers would get drunk and swap stories. A man who possessed enough patience to endure long, boastful tales of petty deeds could learn a lot. Sometimes.

Tonight however, Aragorn was just trying to stay alive. He twisted past a pair of combatants and pushed towards the tent flap. The unwashed bodies of Southron soldiers pressed in on him from all sides. They were either making their way to the exit or to the fight. Most were headed towards the latter. His adopted unit had seen little action in the past few months, and they were unhappy about being posted so far north. Brawling had become a common way of relieving tension.

Aragorn wanted no part of it; he felt genuinely happy for the first time in almost ten years. The stars were comfortingly familiar; the air was cooler than a baker's oven and an image of long, raven hair filled his thoughts. He was going home.

Provided he survived the wars, assassination attempts and bar fights.

An errant elbow caught him in the ear, making his head ring. He threw his weight against the offending soldier, forcing a break in the mob. He could see the door now, the lights of campfires flickering in the outer darkness. With one last shove, he made his escape.

He sighed and breathed in the cool night air. _Soon,_ he promised himself, _just a few more weeks._

Looking up, he saw the North Star through a gap in the clouds. He followed it back to the tent that he shared with the other junior officers. When he pulled open the door-flap, the heat hit him like a physical blow. Copper braziers warmed the cramped barracks to a temperature tolerable to the real Haradrim. The air, if it could be called that, was full of dust, sweat and acrid smoke.

Some men slept under copious wool rugs but most huddled around the heat, talking and gambling. Aragorn joined them, sitting cross-legged on a rug, but declining the proffered set of dice. He played a bigger game.

As if to make up for the rowdiness of the mess, the occupants of this tent seemed unusually subdued. They talked in low voices and even the habitual dicing looked to be a half-hearted affair.

One of the men spat into the brazier, causing a hiss of steam. "Well Nashir, how is the mess?" he asked.

The ranger shrugged, indifferent. "Same as always: loud and rough. The conversation was bad and the wine worse. I should have stayed here."

Another man laughed. "I can see that." Then added for Aragorn's benefit: "Your ear is bleeding."

He touched the side of his head; his hand came away red. "It is nothing," was all he said.

No one commented. The walls of the tent and the thick smoke dampened all the sound from outside. Finally, the first man broke the silence. "Were they talking of the events in the North?"

The ranger's interest was sparked. "What is this?" he asked.

"Word is that the company we are replacing has claimed a great triumph from those pale Western scum." He spat again, this time in anger. "Had we been there but a week sooner we could have claimed their prize, and its glory."

"What prize?" he asked, forcing himself to sound unconcerned.

The first man looked to the second. "'Tis your tale," he said. "Tishan here had it from Namu, the errand rider who just came down from the North."

"Well," Aragorn asked, also turning his gaze to the other man.

Tishan grinned, delighted to be the one to dole out the news. "Why, the greatest prize our people have ever clamed, though it will go to our Northern allies," he added darkly.

This bodes ill, thought Aragorn, but said, "You would do well to stop crowing and start talking."

Tishan laughed once more. "No need for anger, friend. I will tell all." He paused for dramatic effect. "It happened not five days past, but the news just reached us. Those manning the North Fort, the one we share with the servants of the Dark Lord, captured a man."

"That is all?" Aragorn leaned forward in surprise. "One man?"

Another laugh, the other man was clearly savouring the suspense. "Aye, one man. Would you care to wager who among the Westerners would warrant such an honour?"

Aragorn pretended to think for a moment. "Ecthelion the Second, Steward of Gondor." He had to struggle to keep his tone light. _A Elbereth, anyone but him._

Tishan waved dismissively. "Nay, you aim too high; we'd never pry him out of that gilded cage of his. Not without taking it down around him"

Aragorn sighed with relief. He couldn't help himself; he loved the Steward as a father.

Fortunately, he was misinterpreted. "Don't be too disappointed, my friend. What we caught is almost as good." Again, the Southron paused for effect. Aragorn felt like beating a swift answer out off him. There was no need; Tishan had wisely finished with baiting. "We won his only son and heir, Denethor, the second of that name. If all goes as expected, he will be taken to the Lord of the Dark Tower."


	3. Of Privies and Persecution

The air stifled with heat. Even though Aragorn had taken his usual place near the door, no breeze cooled the air this night. He lay motionless, listing to the breathing of the men around him. The restless turning and shifting had by now lapsed into a muffled quiet. He thought that they all slept, but he couldn't be sure.

Shifting slightly, he peeked under the edge of the tent. He saw by the stars that perhaps a quarter of the night was gone. _Soon now,_ he thought. _I know his habits._

True to prediction, someone stirred behind him. Aragorn could just hear one of the Haradrim rising quietly. The other man picked his way towards the Ranger, taking care not to disturb the sleepers. Still, a mumbled protest rose as he tripped slightly on a dark form.

Aragorn forced himself to relax, feigning sleep. Regular traffic had turned out to be one of the disadvantages of lying by the door. He listened as the soft steps first approached, than passed him by. A light breath of night air brushed his face as the other man pushed through the tent flap.

As soon as the sound had receded into the night, Aragorn rolled soundlessly to his feet. He hefted his pack, which had been serving as a pillow and, pausing for a moment, glanced around. A quick survey revealed no one watching him, and he quickly slipped from the tent.

There seemed less cloud than before, and the moon cast weak shadows on the earth. The ranger did his best to keep to that darkness as he followed the other man. It did not prove particularly difficult. Aragorn knew his prey's destination and could choose his route.

Soon, the man he followed came to the edge of the camp. A line of shallow latrine holes marked out the downwind side. The soldiers dug these as soon as they made camp and filled them in just before they marched. As the other man approached the holes, Aragorn slid closer to the nearest tent. A small thing, it cast barely enough shadows to hide him properly, but had the advantage of covering only supplies.

After a moment, Aragorn heard footsteps again. He stood utterly still, hoping to blend in with the darkness. The other man passed him without even a glance in his direction. The ranger smiled with satisfaction and moved. Swift, smooth and silent, he drew one of the long, wicked knives that the Haradrim favoured and stepped forward. Before the other man knew he was there, Aragorn was behind him, hand on his mouth, blade to his throat, whispering into his ear. "One sound and your life is forfeit!" he said. "Do as I say and you may yet live." He pressed the knife a little harder for emphasis and asked. "Nod if you understand."

The Man of Harad complied, moving his head as little as possible.

"Good," said Aragorn. "Now, come with me." Keeping the knife where it was, he pulled his captive backward into the supply tent. "Sit," he ordered.

He knelt, his back still to Aragorn, hands held away from his sides. The Ranger moved with him, also kneeling. This might take a while and he wanted to be comfortable. His captive trembled with fear, but he could detect no trace of shock. He had known this was coming.

Somehow, that didn't overly surprise the ranger.

"Well, Tishan," Aragorn said, "You to have found yourself into more trouble than you can handle." On receiving no response from his captive, he added. "I'm going to take my hand off your mouth now. If you were to try to summon help, you would die before the cry left your lips. Do you understand?"

Tishan nodded again, too fearful to make any other move.

The ranger withdrew his hand, and after pausing for a moment to see if the other man would try to make any sound, began his interrogation. "You will speak only when spoken to. Any word louder than a whisper and you will not live to regret it. Now who sent you?"

Tishan made a passable impression of confusion. "Why are you doing this, Nashir?" he pleaded. "Are we not friends? We have served together all these months and I have done naught to harm you. I serve of His Royal Divinity, the Lord Kasnar of Roshnia, as I thought you did."

Aragorn smiled grimly. "I am not that easily fooled. Were you my friend, you would not have watched my every move for these last months. Nor would you have lied to me. You had no tale from Namu the errand-rider. I spent the day with him and did not see you. What is more, he had no news of a victory in the North." Before his captive could protest again, he changed the subject. "I did not ask who has the honour of your service. I asked who commanded you to spy on me. Now give me a truthful answer." The knife pressed closer.

"You must think much of yourself if believe that they would send a man of my skills after you." The Man of Harad's intended sneer came out hollow and afraid.

"What skills do you speak of?" Aragorn asked, voice dripping with scorn. "The ability to walk unaware into the midst of a trap?"

That stung. "I was not unaware. They told me to expect this."

Aragorn smiled. "And who might these 'they' that you refer to be?"

Tishan winced, more from his slip than the other's blade. "Captain Ezrie, the leader of our company," he stammered, then, remembering the plural, added: "and his senior officers. They believe you to be a spy and wanted to lure you out"

The ranger sighed. "I asked for the truth, this is not it. If our Captain wanted to be rid of me, he would not dally with ploys and amateur spies. He would confront me in the presence of a dozen hand picked guards and have them execute me." He pressed a little harder. "Now for the last time: who sent you?"

"I don't know!" It would have been a scream, but for the dagger at his throat. "It was always through an agent; I never met them in person."

That was what the assassins in the alley had said. "Details," he snapped.

Now that he had started, Tishan seemed almost eager to talk. "He was not one of us but had the accent of our Northern Provinces. We only met a few times, always outside the camp. He wanted to know about you: what you were doing, whom you talked to. His gold was good. I didn't see the harm." He stopped, thinking that was enough. At further pressure, he blurted, "He said that you would not kill an unarmed man."

"We shall see about that," said Aragorn. He had no intention of doing so, but wanted to put the fear of the Dark Lord into the man's heart before he got to the important questions. "Tell me all I ask and you might yet live."

Tishan nodded as much as he could.

It took almost an hour, but the ranger finally managed to extract all the information that he needed. By the time he finished, he was deeply disturbed. He had hoped that this was just another trap laid for him, but it sounded as if the tale told earlier that night had been true. The news had not come from Namu, but one of the sealed dispatches he carried. How Tishan's employer had come by it, he did not find out. But even if they had been purposely passed to him, the facts remained the same.

Denethor had been captured several days past. He would soon be on his way  
to the Dark Tower. He and Aragorn had never been friends, but the ranger would not wish that fate on anyone.

He sighed and looked at Tishan. "Well my friend, it seems our association is at an end."

A look of pure terror entered the other man's eyes. For the first time that night, he moved. His hand shot to the small of his back and before Aragorn could restrain him, came out with a knife twin to the one held to his flesh.

Aragorn cursed. He flipped his own blade so that the point was just under the Man of Harad's jawbone, and pushed up. The smooth steel slid effortlessly into the other man's flesh, burying itself in his brain. Tishan slumped back, leaning against the ranger, dead before he felt it.

Aragorn removed his knife, wiping it clean on Tishan's robe before he returned to its sheath. He lowered the body to the ground and tossed a few sacks over it. The death didn't affect his plans much. He was leaving anyway, and Tishan probably wouldn't be found until morning, a good six hours hence.

He stood slowly, flexing muscles cramped from almost an hour of kneeling on the hard ground. When he felt ready to move, he crept into the night without hesitation. He knew where he had to go next There was no way that he could make the pass in time on foot; he would need a mount.

The horses were picketed in three staggered lines at the edge of the camp. He made for the inner line where the best animals were kept. He had little trouble getting there; they were still far enough South that the guard was relaxed. After dodging a single sentry, he came among the shadowy shapes of the horses. Most of them slept, heads drooping, but a few snorted to acknowledge his approach. These were not the bulky war-steeds of the Rohirrim; they were smaller and leaner, and faster than the wind. The best of them could make half again the time of any in the North. The swiftest were reserved for the messengers and errand-riders; it was one of their kind that the ranger needed.

He kept his body low, head below the shoulders of the steeds, and crept through the lines. When he reached his target, a three-year-old stallion called Merran, he found all the necessary tack stacked next to it. He silently blessed this custom of Harad, intended to aid hasty decampment in times of crisis. Hastily putting on the light saddle and bridle, he prepared to mount.

Suddenly, there was light behind him.

He turned slowly and saw Captain Ezrie holding a torch and smiling. Behind him were a half-dozen of his personal guards. "Caught stealing my best horse," he said, voice low and amused. "I wonder where you are going in such a hurry." He let all mirth drop, and continued, "filthy Northern spy."


	4. Of Duty and Distrust

Aragorn sighed and moved his hand away from his sword hilt. "You always have had a taste for melodrama, Captain," he said, a note of disapproval in his voice.

Ezrie laughed. "I think that you take more offence at my style than my slurs. I had understood that an insult was supposed to sting all the more for being true. Another grand idea lost." He moved closer, causally stroking the flanks of the sleeping horses. His guards followed, ever vigilant.

The ranger stared appraisingly at the hulking forms. He did not like what he saw. "Should you be speaking thus in front of them?" he asked.

"I trust them." The Man of Harad glanced back at his followers and shrugged. "What they know already is enough to damn both of us. It should not matter that they learn more. In any case, what difference does it make it they are honest or not? I'm sure you could easily match them all if it came to a fight."

"I might be able to," Aragorn said, after giving the guards another good look. "But not without waking the whole camp and perhaps injuring the horses."

Captain Ezrie now stood beside him, he patted the ranger's shoulder like an affectionate father. "Well, we can't have that, can we? I have few enough good horses as it is." He sighed, bad supplies and equipment had always been the plague of military officers. "While we are on that subject: why _are_ you stealing my fastest errand horse?"

As quickly as he could, Aragorn filled him in on the situation, including the fact that he'd left a body to be disposed of. "I must make haste, lest they reach the pass before me," he concluded.

The Southron narrowed his eyes and considered the tale. "What benefit is there to our cause if you leave? You are of much use to me here." He shook his head decisively. "The life or death of one Northerner will have little effect on my people, no matter who his father is. The information you have given me has saved the lives of many, and with the will of the gods will continue to do so. Were you caught, your knowledge of our resistance would condemn us. I would not trade those futures for but a single foreigner, nor a score of foreigners for that matter."

"My co-operation is to be given of my own will or not at all," snapped the Ranger. "You cannot force my aid." He drew a calming breath. "Our final goal may be different, but our means are the same. We both desire the fall of the Lord of the Dark Tower. The loss of such a prize would be a grievous one indeed to the power of Mordor. The soldiers would lose much heart, especially if word of it spread amongst them quickly."

A smile of comprehension spread across Ezrie's face. "And they would be so much easier to recruit if their faith were to be shaken. Very well, my friend, be on your way. And good luck to you."

Aragorn sighed with relief; the situation could have become very ugly. "This will be our farewell, for I deem that I shall not pass this way again within the span of your lifetime." He pulled the surprised Man of Harad into a quick embrace. "You have been a friend in my hour of need, for that I thank you."

The captain clasped his hand warmly. "And you as well, for your help has been beyond measure. Our true goals are not that different, we both desire freedom for our people. The chains that hold the Men of the North are those of fear, not bondage. May someday all bonds be broken." He said, as if offering a toast. And indeed he had said the same words many times over a shared drink.

Aragorn smiled and gave the same response as he always did: "May we both live to enjoy that day." Releasing his friend's hand, he swung up onto Merran's back. "May the Light of the Valar guide you!" he said. Then turned and began to silently pick his way through the sleeping lines of horses.

Just before he left hearing range, he heard the murmured response: "May they speed your journey and protect you from harm."

The ranger looked back. Seeing his friend standing still, a shadow among shadows, he knew it would be the last time. He rode into the darkness without looking back again.


	5. Of Horses and Headaches

Confound this heat! Aragorn thought for the thousandth time that day, it's supposed to be winter.

They were far enough North that there was now dusty scrub lining the road instead of sand hills. Seeing green again was bracing, but sadly it was not refreshing enough to take even a little of the edge off the heat. A constant reminder that he wasn't really all that far away from the desert.

All night, he had ridden hard and now his weary steed forced him to a slower pace. The night's scattered clouds had cleared at dawn, giving the day a dazzlingly bright start. By midmorning it had started to feel less a gift. Now at noon, he knew it was a curse. The sun no longer dazzled; it blazed.

Merran was starting to drag his feet and the Ranger feared that they would soon have to stop and lie out the day's heat. The urge to speed to Denethor's aid was tampered by the sure knowledge that any faster pace than this would find him walking.

Thus they trudged along the road, perspiration running down his face and dripping off his nose and chin. The light bored into his back and neck. He was infinitely glad that he had assumed the disguise of a Haradrim headscarf. A drop trickled down his back, tickling as it rolled over his spine. He reached back to rub it away, arching his back, stretching out muscles stiff from twelve hours' riding. A lock of dark hair escaped its confinement, falling into his face. It dripped dirty sweat in his eye. He tossed his head, sending it showering over Merran. The horse snorted a tired protest and mimicked his master's last motion perfectly. The salty spray once again covered Aragorn, now with the added scent of horse.

The Ranger leaned forward and spoke softly into his mount's ear. "Easy, friend," he murmured, "just another league. I saw a grove of beech trees from the crest of that past hill. There will be shade and water there. We will soon rest there."

Merran's only response was to flick his ear into Aragorn's face. _You were not bred with swiftness of thought foremost in mind, were you? _he thought irritably, rubbing the itch out of his nose with the back of his hand.

Sure enough, when they reached the top of the next rise, he could see the dark blur of a grove below them. His mount, scenting water, quickened his pace and they were soon speeding down the slope.

What happened next was a blur. Merran lost his footing. Aragorn felt himself being jerked suddenly forward. Despite the heat daze and his worried thoughts, he managed to keep his seat. A moment later the wiry horse went down. He was forced to throw himself clear, lest he be rolled on.

He landed badly. His shoulder struck the worn stone of the road, sharp pain taking his breath away. As quickly as he could, he scrambled to his feet, sword in hand.

Nothing happened.

He drew several deep breaths to steady his racing heart, and looked around. The tattered brush on either side of the highway was not nearly thick enough to hide in. The surrounding countryside held no concealing rises other than the one he had just crossed. Most importantly, he didn't feel the telltale tingling in his nerves that came before an ambush.

For the moment he was safe.

He hoped.

Turning his attention to his horse, he let out a cry of dismay. Merran was writhing in pain, left foreleg twisted at a sickening angle. "Ah Elbereth!" he whispered. He closed his eyes, knowing what he must do.

Dodging the flailing hooves, he edged towards the stricken steed. He knelt at his head, out of reach. He waited until Merran's neck curled towards his belly, then struck a precise blow with the hilt of his sword. There were several more convulsions, then only twitching.

Placing a hand on his mount's forehead, he murmured, "I'm sorry my friend."

How did this happen? he wondered. Examining the paving of the road, he found his answer. Someone had painted numerous strips of wood to match the stone and placed them in his path. Turning one over, he saw that the underside was coated in a thick layer of grease. It was no wonder that Merran had slipped.

Someone had set a trap on the road. Aragorn pursed his lips, considering. The Haradrim would hardly ambush their own highway, nor would the Servants of the Dark Lord. The Men of Gondor however often did such things. He had on occasion helped set similar traps along this very road. Designed to either stand alone or accompany an ambush, they had often proved deadly to the Enemy. The Rangers of the South rarely ventured this far, but it was not unheard of. He grimaced at the irony.

"I hate this!" he growled.

He took a long swig from his water flask and pondered what to do next. There didn't seem to be many options. Regardless of who was responsible, the outcome was the same: he would end up walking. Sheathing his sword, he started down the road.


	6. Of Water and Wayfarers

By the time he reached the grove, Aragorn felt ready to fall into the cool water of the stream. Face first. The waves of heat had made the trees seem much closer than they were. Instead of the few leagues he had expected, he had walked five. The water Merran had scented was a stagnant ditch, so filled with slime that he had vowed not drink it were it the last in Middle-earth. His skin had run dry over an hour ago, and he had begun to regret his decision.

The sudden coolness of the shade washed a wave of dizziness over him. He fell heavily into the nearest tree, hoping the bite of rough bark might jolt him awake. He briefly pondered fainting forward into the stream but resolved instead to make do with only dunking his head. He knew that his recent luck might well lead to a rather damp death.

"And what good would I be were I drowned?" he asked himself. He shook his head and laughed bitterly. "What good am I now, for that matter? Here I am, stranded in the north most South, without hope or horse. What chance have I of saving the son of my friend? Were the sun to bake my brain further, I might begin to speak to myself aloud." He smiled to himself. Maybe it was an old jest, but black humour was all he had at the moment.

Pushing off, he swayed over to the creek and fell to his knees before it. He bent over and lapped up the blessed water like a dog. It was hard not to drink too quickly. He alternated between splashing his face and shoulders and taking long grateful gulps. By the time he had finished, he was soaked to the skin.

Scooping sand out of the creek bed, he scrubbed his face and hands, soon fouling the water with sweat and grime.

Quenching his thirst made him realise how hungry he was. Searching the contents of his pack, he unearthed a neatly wrapped package containing strips of dried meat. He leaned against the wide base of an oak and munched contentedly. Letting the tension seep out of his body, he allowed himself to relax for the first time in weeks.

Only the clatter of hooves saved the ranger from falling asleep. The light, fast rhythm of the errand rider's step rang though the still air. From the sound, it was but a single rider, still at a goodly distance to the North.

Aragorn started awake, scrambling to his feet. _A horse,_ he thought, _just what I need. _In his haste, he upset the pack on his lap. The contents scattered across the glade. Hastily thrusting them back in, he found a length of rope. The coils did their best to tangle with the pack as he tried to throw them both on his shoulders at once, all while he sprinted towards the far edge of the grove. With every stride, the coarse fibres of the rope dug into skin of his neck. He thought longingly of the silky smooth cords that Elrond's people wove. Still, this was not bad for the work of mortals, having strength enough to hold the weight of two men, while remaining light enough to carry.

He slowed his pace as he neared the edge of the trees. Squinting to block the sudden strength of sunlight, he saw yet another stretch of scrub-covered plain. Over it, the paved road ran to a green shadow that marked the start of the wooded slopes of Ithilien.

A lone rider approached at a slow canter, heading straight towards the ranger. Aragorn had to stifle the urge to hide deeper amongst the trees. He knew that in the shade of the grove, his dust brown garb hid him from all eyes. His nerves simply had trouble believing that.

He retreated back along the path about twenty paces. There he found the two strong young trees he had taken note of earlier. His fingers tied the knots almost unconsciously as he fastened one end of the rope around the first tree. When it was secure around the smooth bark, he pulled it tight. Repeating the action on the second tree, he created a taut barrier at chest-height across the road.

He slipped behind a broad trunk, unsheathing his sword as he went.

_Not the most honourable of tactics,_ he thought, _but time allows for nothing else._

He sighed and settled back onto his haunches. The lush bushes that surrounded the tree allowed him to keep watch on the roadway, while screening him from view.

The ring of iron against stone grew louder. The rider had entered the grove.

It would only be a few moments now.

One of those moments later, Aragorn captured his first close sight of the rider. It was another Son of Harad, a young man of perhaps seventeen years. His thick black hair was long and greased back into a tail. He wore the colours of the company that currently held the North-most outpost. Aragorn watched as the other man came closer still. Though he sat straight in his saddle, his attention was obviously elsewhere. His black eyes held the distant look of one who is thinking of home.

THWANG!

The rope caught the young Man of Harad squarely in the ribs, carrying him free of his mount. The horse reared in alarm, startled at the sudden loss of her rider. The back of her neck struck the unyielding line, panicking her even further. The rider rolled frantically to the side. He barely missed being crushed by his mount as she fell.

Aragorn sprang forward. The horse was just staggering to her feet, shaking her head in confusion. Catching her bridle in his left hand, he yanked down, keeping her on her knees. With his free hand he held the point of the blade to the astonished rider's throat.

The situation was not one that required words, but all the same he snapped: "Do not move!"

The boy froze, eyes wide with fear and shock. His face was twisted into the expression of someone who expected to be eaten alive. Considering the rumours that the servants of the Dark Lord spread, that was probably exactly what he thought was about to happen. Aragorn smiled at him in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion. His "victim" shuddered. The ranger sighed and turned his attention to calming the equally terrified horse.

Keeping one eye on the rider, he touched his forehead against the animal's. "All is well, my lady," he murmured. "No harm will come to you. Calm yourself. No one wishes you ill in this land." Maintaining the soft flow of words, he slowly led her up and forward. When she was standing clear of the rope, he released her bridle.

She started slightly then relaxed. Gently nuzzling his chest, she whickered softly.

He stroked her neck, running his fingers through her coarse mane. "That is right, Lady. Be still now." Without moving the point, he switched his sword to his left hand. With his sword hand, he fastened a loose end of the rope to the ring on his new horse's bridle. Now she could not stray more than five paces.

That is one difficulty overcome, he thought, now to care for the greater one.

The rider had not moved. He lay still on his back, half sitting, with his elbows supporting him. He was facing his captor, and trying to muster some kind of defiance. He looked more ready to shed tears than die bravely. When the ranger met his gaze, he dropped his eyes and whimpered softly.

"Come now, child," Aragorn said softly, as though still calming the horse. "Stand up. Slowly. Hold your hands over your head. I will not harm you."

The Man of Harad did as he was bid without a word.

Aragorn sheathed his own sword, and then relieved the boy of his, along with two knives. These he stowed safely out of reach on the horses' saddle. He then completed a more through search of the rider's garments. As he ran his hands over him, Aragorn could feel every muscle in the boy's body shaking with fear, but his captive still did not move or speak.

In an embroidered pouch slung over the Southron's shoulder, he found something of interest. A pair of tightly wound scrolls, closed with ribbon and wax. One was sealed with red as dark as blood, the other an unrelieved black. They bore the stamp of a horned serpent and a crescent moon respectively. These were reports and orders from Minas Morgul. He had not sought them but would not ignore good fortune when he came across it.

They certainly made interesting reading. It seemed that there had been some dispute over who had the right to retain Denethor. More than harsh words had been exchanged between the Captain of Harad and the orc chieftain involved. Eventually the Nazgûl had grown tired of waiting and terrified both sides into submission. The writing became unsteady when it spoke of the Witch Kings.

The Steward's son had been given into the keeping of Minas Morgul. The company bearing him to the Dark Tower was to leave that evening.

While Aragorn studied the scrolls, the boy had been slowly edging away from him. Aragorn played at ignorance. If the Man of Harad flew, he would be one less concern to worry over.

He finished reading and decided to hasten the problem out of his way. Glancing up sharply, he made as if he had suddenly heard a noise.

The boy bolted into the trees.

Laughing softly to himself, Aragorn quickly untied his rope. He had a feeling that he might have need of it later.

The last knot was on the horse's bridle. He released her and swung into the saddle in one fluid motion. It took a moment to secure his newfound possessions and lengthen the stirrups, but was soon snugly fitted.

"I dub thee 'Rána,'" he told his mount, for her coat was the colour of the wandering moon.

Spinning her around, he spurred to the North.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A technical note: this entire chapter was written without the benefit of a working E, e, # or 3 on my keyboard. It is always fun to type when you have to press Ctrl V every time you want the most common letter in the English language (Alt 0069 for E).

The name "South Ithilien" was more a tradition than a reflection of the territory's true geography. It held the shady woods and laughing streams that its northern namesake was known for, but only sporadically. For the most part, it was composed of broad expanses of dry scrub. The Haradrim camp had found itself quite at home in the middle of it.

The true woods did not start until the slopes of Emyn Arnen.

As he rode through the valley between the Hills by the Water and the Mountains of Shadow, Aragorn slipped off his pack the mare had a smooth gait, and he found no trouble in keeping his balance, even with his hands occupied. Balancing it on Rána's shoulders, he exchanged his tunic for one from its contents. Its colours were those of Captain Ezrie's company and sewn on its sleeves were the marks of an errand rider. He had let the sun's heat melt the wax seals a little and now refastened the scrolls. After smoothing away his fingerprints with an edge of his shirt, he placed both messages in a messenger's dispatch pouch. He slung both it and his pack back over his shoulders and smiled to himself in satisfaction. The heat of the South had long since browned his skin, and he could now be confused with any one of a thousand riders in the service of Harad.

Settling back into to the saddle, he let his horse's even pace lull him into a half-doze. He had ridden with the Rohirrim for almost five years, and had learned from them how to nap on the road. The Riders of Mark could ride for days without pause if they had change of horse. He knew that in a little over two hours the road would begin to descend into the Morgul Vale; the change in Rána's stride would wake him. For now, he desperately needed rest.

He thought of Denethor, a man much like to him in many ways. Learned and valiant, a leader of men, but proud, so very proud. He had seen Aragorn as a rival from the moment the ranger had entered Ecthelion's service. Thorongil, as he was then known, had not intended to garner favour, but events had progressed with a life of their own. With every word of advice and service given, he had risen in the eyes of the father and fallen in the eyes of the son. After that victory in Umbar, he had known that it was time to leave. Blood would have been spilled had he returned to the White City.

That had been six years ago. He very much doubted that the heir's temper had improved much since.

With visions of angry noblemen raging in his head, he drifted into a light sleep.

The day had lengthened into the early evening by the time he woke. A break in the trees gave him a view of the sun falling towards the peak of Mount Mindolluin, over Minas Tirith.

To the East he caught a glimpse of another White City as it loomed above the trees. A single red light crowning its highest tower flickered ominously.

Instead of going to the Crossroad and following Imlad Morgul to the Tower of Dark Sorcery, he cut across country. Ezrie had told him of a shortcut used by many of his people. It was barely a trail at all really, hardly wide enough for a single rider. The going became slower as it narrowed, and he had to check the mare to a fast trot. At least the rougher pace and branches slapping his face helped rattle the remaining sleep from his senses.

The track wound through the woodland and skirted below the cliffs that plunged into the Vale, all too soon leading him to the clearing that surrounded the City of Sorcery. From there it proceeded directly to the bridge beneath the Tower.

What he saw as he approached the edge of the trees caused his heart to stop. For a brief moment, he wished that he was still deep in slumber and that this was some unnatural dream.

He had seen the Fortress of the Ringwraiths before, it would be impossible not to after so many years in Gondor. Never had he been near this close. Upon further study, he decided that he never wanted to be again either.

The same hand that had built Minas Tirith had crafted its sister. Tall white walls swept up to meet soaring towers. It was intended to project both power and beauty, like the prow of a ship of Westernese.

That had changed. A dark hand had taken every fair design and twisted it back on itself. The white walls, which once had gleamed in light of sun and moon, now glowed a sickly, translucent yellow, like a bone boiled until soft. They seemed to catch all light and reflect it back distorted. Even the blossoms that carpeted the clearing before him were perverted, each one matching the walls in colour and bearing a deadly needle at its heart.

By leaving the shelter of the wood, he seemed to cross some invisible boundary. The very air thickened so that all sounds sounded faint and distant. Rána immediately slowed to a reluctant walk. He barely had the heart to urge her on; he felt no more desire to pass below the menacing walls than she did.

But time was not on his side. The Sun had now sunk below the peaks of Ered Nimrais, her last rays transmuting the sparse clouds into molten gold. He had to be ready before the company holding Denethor left at nightfall. To be ready he had to be on the other side of the pass. He gave the mare a solid kick. "Make haste, Milady! The swifter your pace, the sooner our departure from this accursed place." In response she returned to a fast trot, adding as many bumps and jolts as she could manage.

Together they advanced, going unchallenged beneath the city. But when they came to the bridge over the Morgul River, they found it guarded. Twisted trees grew at either bridgehead; equally twisted creatures lounged in their shade. A dozen Orcs in all, they were split between both ends, eating, snarling and appearing bored.

As Aragorn approached, the largest of them slouched to his feet. He was not as tall as a man, but made up for it by being twice as broad across the shoulders. Ritual scars webbed around his yellow eyes. He leered, exhibiting a mouth containing enough teeth for three Men. "What your business, Man-flesh?" he snarled, his rendition of Common Tongue distorted almost beyond understanding. His scars danced as he spoke.

Aragorn found that he was at a loss for words. Normally he would not be in the least daunted by such a challenge. But then, normally he would not be in Imlad Morgul preparing to enter the Land of Shadow. He could feel his hands shaking as he gripped the rains.

_I have slain better than you!_ he thought to summon courage. It helped somewhat and after a few repetitions he felt able to speak.

"I... I am a messenger," he said, leaving a slight tremor in his voice for authenticity's sake. The situation was probably enough to put the fear of Morgoth into most living beings anyway. "I bear dispatches from my Captain to the Dark Tower."

"Stay time! More come when burning light gone. You go with us!" the Orc obviously found Aragorn's pretence of fear greatly entertaining. He seemed to want to have the diversion for the entire journey.

"No!" the ranger did not have to feign emotion this time. "I cannot! My orders are to travel with utmost haste. If I tarry my head is forfeit." _Maybe next time,_ he added silently.

The Orc leaped forward, shoving his face into Aragorn's. Ranger and horse jumped back as one. He laughed and the others joined in if and when they got the joke. The sound was akin to two score cats being beaten to death with chain mail shirts. Still, they stepped aside, opening a path. "Run, Man-flesh!" the leader shouted as Aragorn shot by at a full gallop. "Next time eat you!"

When they were safely past the crossing, they both let out the breath they had been holding. Aragorn had been afraid that he would be forced to travel with the very company that he sought to ambush. Rána also had seemed concerned, but with becoming Orc food.

His relief was short lived. Looking ahead he saw the jagged crags of Ephel Duath and in a cut between them, the way to Mordor.

"Shall we go then, Lady?" he asked as they started up the pass. "Shadow and darkness await."


	8. Of Ropes and Roadways

Even the stars were dimmer in the Land of Shadow. A foul vapour filled the air, suppressing their light. Only the brightest of Elbereth's jewels could be seen, weakly flickering though the gloom. Eärendil the Mariner hid behind the fence of mountains. The waning moon had yet to rise.

The glow that illuminated Aragorn's way came from Mount Doom. The light of its fires caught in the haze, turning the sky into an ocean of burning blood.

The ranger had little need of it. He had scouted this side of the pass some years previously, committing the terrain to memory.

The road snaked its way south along a cliff face, the sheer wall of the mountain rising on his right and diving to his left. Occasionally, a small ridge jutted out, and the way was hewn though a narrow canyon. More like tunnels than passes, they forced the traveller to stumble briefly through utter darkness before emerging again into the light of the Mountain.

In one such place, a narrow path had originally worked its way around the obstruction, but when the road was widened, it had been carved straight through. There were now two paths, the outer one now somewhat overgrown with coarse bracken.

He dismounted and led Rána along the cliff edge. When he came to a place hidden from view of the main road, he loosely tied her reins to a bush. Striping off his clothes, he fashioned a crude mannequin by stuffing them with dead ferns. He also filled a spare hood and wound his scarf about it, creating a head. After lashing the construction into place with twine, he stepped back to survey the results. Close up, it looked to be an escaped scarecrow on a rather surprised horse. He hoped that from a distance, it would more closely resemble a Messenger of Harad crouched low in his saddle. At any rate, it would be hard to distinguish any clear details in this gloom.

He hastily donned a set of dark garments form from his pack and hurried down the path. Where the two ways rejoined, there was a high stone bridge above a deep crevasse. Five could walk abreast over it, but years had worn it thin and some of the stones had cracked. As he picked his way through broken cobbles, he passed under a tall crag that over shadowed the crossing from the far side.

He smiled to himself as he looked up.

The rock face on the south side of the ravine loomed above him. From below, the overhang seemed insurmountable. Climbing straight to the pinnacle, the rock was smooth and almost free of handholds. Now and then, a jagged fang of rock protruded slightly from the face. An expert climber could perhaps have made the ascent unaided, but Aragorn had far too little knowledge of that art.

Instead, he gathered his rope. After tying a bowstring knot, finished with a simple knot for safety, he ran the other end of the rope through the loop he had just made. He held the new loop in his right hand, with the coil of remaining line in his left.

Now if only he could remember how to use it.

This was another skill he had learned of the Rohirrim; it came as naturally to them as breathing and riding. It had taken him years to learn it properly, and he had not made use of it in many more years. After a few tentative swings, he picked up speed until the rope was singing through the air over his head. The closest outcropping was perhaps a dozen yards distant, above him to his left. He took a moment to shift his weight, then aimed carefully and released. The rope sped away; disappearing into the darkness above him as its length uncoiled from his grip.

It was a clean miss.

He re-coiled the rope and tried again with renewed concentration. This time the lariat grazed the edge of his target, before slithering back down.

The ranger sighed; he could ill afford such an error. By now, the company would have left Minas Morgul, and he had to have ascended before they reached the bridge.

The third attempt was successful. He tested it with his weight, but the rope was looped securely around his chosen escarpment. A basic harness around his upper body was all he had time for. He did not rightly have time for any safety concerns at all, but more than one life would be lost should he fall.

Without being able to use his feet for more than balance on the sheer face, his arms were forced to bear him upwards. He was glad for the daily ritual of sword practice that he had kept since early childhood. "Wrists of steel," his master had said on many occasions. "If you have wrists of steel you can accomplish any deed." Somehow, Aragorn doubted that this was what the old Elf had had in mind. Or perhaps not, one could never really tell with Elves.

There was a slight ledge behind the point where his rope was attached. He rested there for a brief moment, rubbing his burning arms with raw hands. As it happened, looking down, even for a brief moment, was not a wise idea. The road he had just come from seemed very narrow and far away. Below it, the cliff dropped for at least another two hundred yards before it was lost in shadows. He quickly averted his gaze, turning his attention to the climb ahead. That seemed far less daunting. The summit rose above him at perhaps half the distance that he had already travelled.

As he loosened the line, he saw that the sharp edges of the rock had begun the fray it. Thus far, only a few strands were separated, so he did not trouble to retie his knots at the other end.

This time he caught his target on the first throw. The rope fitted snugly to a projection up and to the north, right below the peak of the main crag. The second climb was far less difficult, for the distance was shorter and the grade much shallower. He still supported most of his weight with his arms, but could occasionally lessen the strain in his back and shoulders by finding footholds.

When he crested the ridge, the ranger could see Eärendil shining brightly over the White City. Again, he felt the familiar light calling to him. He wished he had a ship of stars like his ancestor. At least it would ease the strain of long voyages and painstaking climbs. A chill wind out of the Northwest dried the sweat on his face. Beneath the cloying scent of the Morgul flowers and the tang of Haradrim fires, he could taste a trace of pine needles. He had not seen a pine tree in six years. It smelled like home. "Soon," he told the distant Mariner. "Soon I will again walk in your grace, among your people." He had been too long away.

He sighed and turned back to the business at hand. Leaving the lariat where it hung he coiled the remaining rope neatly out of sight. He doubted that anyone below could possibly see it, but it was better to be safe. The rest of his route inclined gently enough that he could scramble up with ease. Here he sat almost directly over the centre of the bridge; the drop from his perch to the gully bottom was near upon three score yards. He could see the entire length of the road leading to the pass, save only the places where it passed through a gap in a ridge. He even caught sight of Rána, waiting tolerantly for her master far below.

Then he saw them.

Not half a mile up the road. A group of Orcs heavily armed and two dozen strong. They surrounded a pale figure, who stumbled weakly along with the unyielding pull of his lead.

And behind them rode a Nazgûl.


	9. Of Boulders and Blood

The Dark Horseman drove his Orcs before him. Even a look was enough to spur on any creature that should lag.

They had bound a collar about Denethor's neck, attaching a chain by which they led him. His hands were trussed behind him, allowing no means to catch his balance. His captors saw this and made a sport of it. They would jerk his leash one way then the other, and then laugh and clap as he staggered listlessly to their rhythm. The Horn of Gondor, which they had left dangling around his neck, bounced on his chest, just out of reach.

As the ranger watched from above, the game was carried too far. Someone yanked violently forward. The steward's son dropped like felled wood, barely able to keep from smashing his face into the road. Either unseeing or uncaring, the Orc continued on, dragging his prisoner over the rough paving stones.

Just then, they passed behind a ridge, and Aragorn could not see what happened next. He heard a low hiss, followed by a yelp. When they emerged from the shadows, Denethor was on his feet. The soldiers now supported their charge with a firm grip on each arm. At the back of the party, two others dragged the still form of their former comrade. They paused briefly to toss the offending Orc off the cliff edge.

Aragorn turned away, focusing his gaze on the top of the crag. Long ago, lightning struck it; now a web of cracks and scars cut through the stone. Near the crown, an open fracture ran fully around its bounds. At the widest, it was perhaps a hand's breadth, and it ran deep into the rock.

With the aid of the lesser faults, he climbed up further. Drawing the sword he had acquired from the young messenger, he wedged it as far into the gap as he could. When he had finished, over half the blade had disappeared in the rock. He hastily wrapped the sharp edges in a stripe of leather.

The first of the company were starting over the chasm below. They spread out where the way narrowed.

He kicked hard at a cleft, wedging his foot deep into it.

Denethor was on the bridge.

Setting his shoulder under the cold steel of the pommel, the ranger gripped the leather binding near the rock.

As the captive left the bridge, Aragorn drove his upper body against the blade.

It did not budge.

Beneath him, he heard flakes of rock rattling down the cliff as they split from his foothold. Drawing a deep breath, he flung his strength into a steady conflict with the unmoving boulder. The blade cut through its covering and into his palms.

It gave all at once.

There was a crack like lighting splitting the sky, and then his world turned upside down. He shot up and away from his footing on the crag. The sword flew from his grip and spiralled out of sight. He found himself sliding down towards the rope. He tried to catch his fingers in one of the cracks, but there weren't any this far down.

To his left, he saw the tooth of rock where the line was attached. It seemed to come towards him at a disturbing speed. Below that, the cliff dropped sheer to the road.

He shifted to his right side, and then threw his weight into a roll to the left. He managed to fling his sword arm around the rock as he shot past. Completing the roll, he brought his other arm up, clasping hand about wrist. His descent came to a bone-jarring halt.

For a moment, he just hung there, heart pounding wildly against the stone. He tried to calm himself with the knowledge that his harness would have eventually stopped him, but his body insisted on panicking. Drawing deep lungfuls of air, he slowed his ragged breathing. He closed his eyes, letting the rock cool his face.

After letting out one last steady breath, the ranger hauled himself back up onto the ridge. From there he could see the results of his efforts. The bridge had disappeared, the sudden weight of the boulder proving too much for its decaying stones. Joining it at the bottom of the rift, were a good half of the Company. He could not see where either the Nazgûl or its horse were. He hoped his missile had crushed them.

The remainder of the Orcs gathered around the end of the ruined crossing. They peered into the depths, pointing and snarling excitedly amongst themselves. Fortunately, it did not seem to occur to them that the overhanging crag had fallen from anything other than pure accident.

Denethor lay unnoticed and unmoving in their midst.

Between the Nazgûl and heavy objects hurtling out of the sky, Rána had had enough. He could just see her bearing her charge back over the pass at a full gallop. He wished her luck

Finding a stable perch, Aragorn retied the rope, making a slide. His hands looked a ghastly sight, skin burned and abraded, palms sliced open. There was no time to tend them now. He donned a pair of heavy, hide gloves, and on consideration, added another layer of leather around that. He also wrapped a pair of ridding breeches round his waist.

The rope slithered and slapped against the cliff as it fell. Its length reached almost to the ground, ending just over the heads of the Orcs.

Saying a quick prayer to whatever gods or ancestors might be listening, he stepped off the edge.

The line hissed through his hands, almost louder than the wind in his ears. He loosened his grip as much as he dared, and the cliffside flashed past. Every time he used his legs to direct the fall, a shock rent through his muscles.

He could smell smoke. He was clutching the rope tighter now, trying to lessen his speed before it ran out. His gloves, they were what was burning. The heat blistered through three layers of protection.

The end of the line, no time to worry.

"Elendil!" he cried, landing solidly on his feet. Striping away his smouldering gloves, he flung them at the first Orc to turn on him.

Clutching at its face, it jumped back, tumbling over the edge.

Aragorn pushed his advantages. They were surprised and had their backs to a precipice.

The air sang of steel and danced with sparks. He was in a dance of sorts. The stage was set and lit in red. Blood, fire and eyes spun around him.

He was on the ground now, a shield in his face. It too sang as a sword struck it. He shoved it aside and saw the returning blade. His own was still in the last Orc. It would not pull free. He let it go, rolling the other way.

There was a cliff there and no further to go. The knife in his hand felt small. He spun it in the air, catching its blade and then sending it away again. It found a snug home between his assailant's eyes.

Before he could scramble to his feet, another creature took its place. Rolling again only trapped him for the next blow. He watched as the blade edge sped towards him. Maybe if he dove into it.

No matter, it had decided to change trajectories. It glanced off the stones by his head. Now he lunged forward, taking care to avoid Denethor's foot. A foot firmly planted in the back of an Orcish knee.

A tug was all he needed to send his opponent over him and down.

He caught up a stray sword and rolled to his feet, but there was no one left to fight.

Casting the crude blade away, he went to find his own. The sword was buried to the hilt in Orc, its guard tangled in broken armour. He remembered the creature plunging towards him as its fellows crowded over it. That was how he had fallen. He pulled back the mail; once unfettered, the blade slid out easily. Transferring the gore to an already dirty cloak, he sheathed it.

He also cleaned his knife before he cut Denethor's bonds with it. The sharp blade sliced easily through the rope at his wrists, but the tough leather collar took more effort. He had to take care not to cut through flesh as well as bonds. Finishing and rolling the other man back over, he asked, "Are you injured?"

A flicker of recognition passed though grey eyes that were so like his own. The voice was hoarse from thirst and disuse. "Thorongil, are you sinking too? I can't seem to swim."


	10. Of Ill health and Illtempers

"Can I swim?" Aragorn asked blankly. "Denethor, the land could not get any drier." He stared worriedly into the other man's face. The numerous bruises did not especially concern him, nor did the bloody abrasion across his face, or even the broken nose. It was his eyes that frightened him.

Once they had been full of life, taking in the world around them, able to pierce the very hearts of men with a keen glance. Of that fire, only the barest spark remained. The grey-green gaze could only just meet his own, as though they were looking at each other from separate worlds.

"A Elbereth," the ranger sighed; "What have they done too you?"

Denethor did not answer, seeming to slide deeper into whatever held him. He kept his eyes fixed on the other's face as though it was his last hope.

Aragorn could not understand what had happened. The Steward's son had always been strong, a fearsome opponent in both battle and argument. He had never been seen to bend knee to anyone save his lord and father, and sometimes not even to him.

The ranger did not hold the childish faith that a strong man could remain unbroken. He well knew that given enough time, even his own soul could be destroyed. Still, they had not held Denethor for more than a handful of days. He would not believe that even a Nazgûl could have broken this man so quickly.

Besides, Aragorn thought; why would the Nazgûl bother to torment him if they planned to bring him before the Dark Lord in Barad-dûr?

Nazgûl. There was something that Gandalf had told him about Nazgûl. He frowned, trying to recall the old man's words. "They have knives, Blades of Dark Sorcery. If one should pierce mortal flesh, it would consume the very soul of that man." That sounded about right.

He searched Denethor's body for injuries. He had not been captured easily, bruises discoloured his skin and several cuts still bled. Yet he could find no wound deeper than a jagged slash across his forearm. Nor could he discover any signs of torture. His flesh was unmarred by lash or burn, and other than his nose, no bones had been broken.

"What is wrong with you?" he asked in exasperation.

At first, Denethor looked as though he could not quite comprehend the question. Then he closed his eyes and seemed to gather the last of his strength. When he spoke, his words were a mere hint of form in an exhalation. The ranger leaned closer and heard: "Black Breath."

Aragorn cursed himself for a fool. It had been over twenty years since he had last seen the Grey Wanderer, but still, he should have better remembered the wizard's words. When he had declared his intention to journey into shadow, his friend had pronounced a long list of things to be weary of. The evils of the Nazgûl had featured prominently in it. At the time, Aragorn he had felt Gandalf was being something of a mother hen and had wished he wouldn't worry so, but over the years he had come to value his words. Never more so than at this moment, for along with a warning, the wizard had given him a cure.

_When the black breath blows  
And death's shadow grows  
And all lights pass,  
Come athelas! Come athelas!  
Life to the dying  
In the king's hand lying!_

He delved into his pack, quickly procuring several sheets of wax concealed in the lining. Inside the wax were several long, narrow leaves, looking somewhat withered, but in good condition considering their age. Carefully peeling back the protective coating, he removed three of the precious leaves. He smelt them carefully. Being preserved for several years had done little for them, but they still seemed to hold most of their virtues.

In other circumstances, he would have boiled the leaves to release their greatest powers, but now he could risk neither the light nor the time.

Helping Denethor sit up a little, he propped his pack under his head and shoulders. It was not very comfortable perhaps, but the ranger had little time for anything else. He took another look at the other man's face and grimaced. "I should mend that nose before you awake," he muttered. Placing both hands on the broken bone, he drew a deep breath then twisted sharply.

That brought Denethor back for an instant. Eyes flew open and hands gripped wrists, pulling them away from his injured face. Then the moment passed, and he slipped back into a daze, ignoring the blood that now flowed freely.

Aragorn gently disengaged his arms from the now lax grasp, replacing them with a soft cloth. "Hold this to your nose," he said softly. "It will slow the bleeding." When Denethor did not comply, he moved his hand for him. At the same time, he slipped the wad of athelas into the other's mouth. "And chew on that," he added. "Do not worry, I will return shortly."

Leaving the steward's son to recover his strength, he surveyed the situation. Most of the Orcs were already at the bottom of the ravine, having fallen either with the bridge or in the fight. He spent the next few minutes wrestling the remaining corpses over the edge. Let them think it an accident, he prayed as he gave the last one a final shove.

Peering after it, he could make out vague shapes at the bottom. Boulders and bodies littered the ground, but he could see no sign of either dark horse or rider. Then he noticed a fragment of black cloth trailing from under the edge. He knew that he had probably not killed the thing, Nazgûl were tougher than that. Still, Aragorn said another prayer asking for the fell creature to be deep under it the rubble, and for it to stay there for a considerable time. Returning to his feet, he continued to explore.

His rope still hung against the cliff face, ending just above his head. He eyed it speculatively, wondering how best to get it back. Finally, gripping it firmly in newly wrapped hands, he jumped, throwing his weight against it as if ringing a bell. Of course, when he had last hauled on a bell pull, he remembered there being a certain amount of slack given, not this sudden shock through his back and shoulders. And the rope attached to a bell doesn't usually break after several pulls, which this one did.

The ranger found himself sprawled on his back with the remains of the line in a tangled heap on top of him. For a moment he stared in dazed confusion at the stars above him. Then he heard a low chuckle behind him. "And just what about our predicament do you find so amusing, Son of Ecthelion?" he asked, not expecting to like the answer.

He didn't. "The look on your face, Son of No Man," Denethor answered, voice still weak, but now holding a life brought by laughter. "I wish that I had the poet's gift so that I might immortalise it in song. I would name the piece 'The Fall of Thorongil.'" He laughed again.

"At least now you are well enough to have found your sense of humour," Aragorn grumbled as he rolled to his feet, discreetly rubbing the portion of his anatomy most bruised. "There is some grace in that." He saw that the other man had also risen and now leaned tiredly on a discarded sword. He had adjusted the Horn of Gondor, and now it hung properly at his side. Bundling the rope together, the ranger thrust it at him. "Why do you not put some of your new-found vigour to a useful purpose and coil this?"

As Aragorn repacked, Denethor did just that, kneeling to conserve his strength. The last things to be placed in the ranger's bundle were the severed pieces of rope, now neatly tied.

He gave the road one last look, making sure that there were no more signs of their visit. "Do you plan to keep that?" he asked the Denethor, indicating the Orcish blade that he now bore.

The other man nodded. "Travelling with you, I imagine that I will need it." The steward's son levered himself back to his feet, ignoring the ranger's proffered hand.

Free at last, they continued down the road, heading south and further into Mordor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn's healing poem is lifted straight from _The Return of the King_


	11. Of Rest and Rationale

The wind from the Northwest had increased in strength, dispersing the smog. It lightened Aragorn's heart; he had quickly tired of the stench that wafted from below. Now the quarter moon was rising from the shadows of a distant arm of hills. It cast a pale light on their path, replacing the reflected glow of Orodruin that had faded with the haze.

He heard a soft curse as Denethor tripped on the edge of a paving stone. A hand grabbed his sleeve as the other man involuntarily steadied himself. Aragorn did not move, expecting the hold to be removed immediately. But the Steward's son did not let go. Instead, he increased his grip, supporting some of his weight of on the ranger's shoulder.

Without a word, Aragorn guided Denethor's arm over his shoulders. He slipped his own arm around the other's waist, accepting the burden. Thus joined, they resumed their journey.

More weight settled on him as they walked. He hoped that the Steward's son remembered that although the ranger had a few inches more height, he was much lighter in build. And that he too felt weary. He had not slept properly in two days.

He could smell the sweet savour of athelas on the other's ragged breath. Chewing the herb had given Denethor a burst of energy, but that had worn off quickly. His strength had begun to fail again.

"We may rest in a little while," said the ranger, "just as soon as we escape the road."

"I can walk as far as you," Denethor said stiffly.

Aragorn sighed. I should have known better than to say anything, he thought. Well, he will not pull me into a quarrel, not this time. I don't have the energy. Despite this resolution, his mind filled with a thousand sharp retorts. Using no small amount of restraint, he said only "Good, I cannot go much further either."

Even that should have been enough to provoke a response, but Denethor said nothing. His silence worried Aragorn more than anything that had yet happened.

That silence stretched until they finally halted, and even then it was not broken deliberately. They sat in a small gully, a few furlongs from the southern edge of the road. Rock walls rose around them, obscuring the view in all directions save directly above and to the East. The moon was now perhaps three hand spans above the horizon. Smoke stained its face a murky red, but Aragorn could still make out its features.

"I wonder how my horse fares," the ranger mused, thinking of what he had called her.

"Your horse?" Denethor asked, speaking a little louder than necessary.

Aragorn started, he had not realised that he had spoken aloud. Keeping his voice low, he explained. "Yes, my horse, Rána. Last I saw, she was bolting back over the pass. She was a fine steed; I hope that she fares well."

Denethor snorted. "Perhaps you could make clear why your horse runs out of Mordor, while we walk in." His voice still quivered, but it had recovered some of its customary pride. "No offence to your 'fine steed,' but I would prefer that our positions were reversed."

Aragorn leaned back against the rock. "As would I, until such time as the remaining Nazgûl smell you and capture us both. Being unknown to them I might pass under their gates, but you certainly would not. We would not make the river, not with both of us on a single horse." He felt stone digging into his back. Shifting slightly, he tried to find a comfortable position. "As it is," he continued; "they will follow her, and we shall be able to travel in safety." At the other's incredulous expression, he added, "It is better than going back through the Morgul Vale. I know of a pass not far distant. If we journey by night, we should escape unnoticed."

Denethor was silent for a moment. "Fair enough," he said at last. "We will walk, though your plan is not without flaws."

"It was the best I could do under the circumstances," the ranger answered, not apologetically. "If you would rather be freed in some other manner, then go out there and get yourself captured again. Only this time, do not expect my help." The words you seek, he thought, are 'thank you.' And an 'I am forever in your debt for saving me, O Resourceful One' would not feel entirely out of place either. Then he glanced at his companion and decided that those words actually would sound a little odd.

Denethor met his gaze and held it, some of the old fire now in his eyes. "I did not 'get myself captured,'" he growled. "I was betrayed."

Aragorn blinked in surprise, breaking eye connect. "Betrayed? By who?"

"I do not know." He seemed to casually examine his wrists, now scarred by the harsh ropes that had bound him. Every muscle was trembling, not with fatigue, but with ire. "It must have been one of my men. Only the rangers of Ithilien know of that path." He shook his head. "When I find that spawn of Darkness, I will stake his head above the Gate of my City as a warning."

Aragorn smiled. It cheered him that the other man had regained some of his customary spirit. "I imagine your father might object to such a decoration," he said mildly.

That earned him another sharp look. "And you know my father better than I do?" asked the son of Ecthelion.

To prevent another old argument from flaring up, Aragorn got to his feet. "Since you seem well enough to argue, you can probably find the strength to walk."

Denethor rose slowly, balancing against the cliff face. When Aragorn moved to support him, he hesitated. His expression said that he would rather be dragged over hot coals than accept the ranger's help.

"I cannot carry you if you fall," Aragorn said softly.

Denethor sighed faintly. A small sound, almost imperceptible, but the escaped breath carried with it a great load of emotion. He stepped forward and restored his arm to its place across Aragorn's shoulders.

Once again, they set out towards the South, their pace now slowed by rough terrain and lack of light.

Aragorn struggled to find a path through the tangle of boulders and pits that littered the plateau. With every step, his burden grew heavier.

The first light of morn had just crept into the sky when Denethor collapsed.


	12. Of Fire and Frustration

Aragorn had not been lying when he told Denethor that he could not carry him. It had taken nearly an hour to drag the larger man under the shelter of an overhanging cliff. Then he had gone back over their path and removed all traces of his struggle. By the time he had finished, the sun had already crept past the darkness surrounding Barad-dûr.

All he wanted to do was rest, but he knew that if he indulged in sleep now, no army of Mordor could wake him. One of them needed to keep watch and Denethor had just slept through half a mile of rough terrain. The ranger had few options. He let out a long, weary sigh and slumped against the cliff.

It felt good just to sit for a moment. Not letting himself think on either what had just happened or what he would do next. He allowed his mind to wander. It strayed, as it usually did, to the fair woods of home. In all his years of wandering, there was not a day that he had failed to remember them.

Or her. A reflection of her face lingered in his thoughts. Even after almost thirty years, he could see her clearly, grey eyes full of wisdom and mirth. He smiled. The knowledge that the Lady usually directed her amusement at him did not taint the memory. Indeed, it gave him strength in his darkest hours. One day, she would be proud of him.

His will renewed, he returned to the present. Glancing down, he saw that the man of Gondor still slept. Dreams now troubled him; his limbs twitched and his eyes rolled behind their lids. His lips moved as if in speech, but no sound escaped them. Aragorn laid a hand on the other's brow; the flesh felt cool and clammy under his touch.

The ranger shook Denethor's shoulder, calling his name, but there was no response. He had slipped from an exhausted slumber back into the realm of shadows. Aragorn swore. I should have been watching more carefully, he thought.

After several further attempts to rouse the other man failed, the ranger gave up. Denethor had fallen beyond his reach. He stood up, donning his pack as he rose, and walked away.

Not far to the South, he found the place he sought, a great block of stone, at least five times his height and almost as wide. Uncounted years before, it had split from the rock above, tumbling down the mountainside, finally coming to rest against the cliff. Dense thorn trees surrounded its base, which had partly buried itself in the earth. Behind these, Aragorn could see only darkness.

He approached cautiously, sword in one hand and a stone in the other. When he was about five yards away, he could make out the shape of a small cave, its entrance partly hidden behind the brush. Triangular in shape, it rested between rock and cliff, barely large enough for a man to enter.

Switching his sword to his left hand, the ranger flung the stone into the cave. He braced himself and waited for the exodus of any creature that might be living there. His ears strained to catch any hint of movement from within. The only sound he heard was the clatter of his own missile ricocheting through the darkness. "Out, Slugs!" he shouted, using the little Black Speech that he knew. He hoped speaking from the back of his throat made his voice sufficiently Orcish. To this also, there was no response. The cave stood mutely empty.

Feeling both relieved and slightly foolish, he pitched his pack into the darkness.

Fear hastened his return. The full light of day lit the plains, though the smog once again shrouded the sun. For once, he welcomed the vapours. They at least partially hid him from airborne spies as he dragged his companion.

Denethor no longer moved. Whatever demons troubled him had pulled him below the cares of the waking world.

As he dragged the dead weight through the thorn trees, they latched onto both garments and flesh. They felt like living creatures trying to drag them down. Still, the ranger hesitated to hew a path through them. He had little desire to make their hiding place more evident.

The inside of the cave smelled stale and musty. At no place did the roof allow him to stand, but the walls did widen a little after the tight opening. Shadows hid the far edge, but he remembered the cave extending back no more than a half dozen paces. At least it appeared uninhabited, and the ground felt rough but dry.

Aragorn carefully laid his burden down. Loose rocks rattled as they settled under the new weight.

He enacted revenge on the trees by chopping firewood, but even that was painful. He took care only to cut branches that could not be easily seen, or reached for that matter. By the time he finished, thorns had torn every inch of his exposed flesh.

Soon, a small fire crackled and the scent of athelas filled the air. Aragorn's last leaves swirled in the boiling water, dyeing it grey. He kept his body against the narrow entrance, trapping the fire's light and smoke within.

Denethor lay between ranger and the flames. Already the herb had lightened his sleep a little. Once again, he stirred. His lips repeated the same movement, as though he said the same word over again, or called the same name. Aragorn wondered whose it could be. Ecthelion perhaps? No, somehow he couldn't imagine the proud man of Gondor praying for his father.

"Denethor?" he asked tentatively. No, that wasn't the right way to do it. He leaned closer, saying the name again, this time with a note of command. "Denethor!"

The Steward's son showed no sign that he heard that command or any of the many that followed.

Aragorn sighed; this had sounded so easy when Gandalf had described it. Sitting back on his heels, he considered what the wizard had told him of curing Black Breath. He had found a quiet place, steeped the leaves of the athelas plant and called the injured back. He thought he had done what he was supposed to. Why hadn't it worked?

It probably only takes more time, he reasoned. Gandalf was not very specific; perhaps he did not know himself.

But waiting did not seem to be of any help either. Nor did commanding, shouting or pleading.

"Morgoth take you!" he snarled after another half-hour of futility. "Why won't you come back? Granted, you do not have much to return to at this time, a wounded rival in a dingy cave. But what of Gondor? What of your Lord Father? I have gone to a great deal of trouble to ensure that you return to them."

Aragorn slammed his fist into the rock. The gesture did nothing but cause his wounds to bleed further. His mood did not improve.

"I should leave you here," he told his companion. "My lingering could mean death for us both. I at least have someone worth living for. I intend to see her again."

A single word formed on Denethor's lips, given voice by a faint breath.

"Stay."

Aragorn stayed.


	13. Of Darkness and Discussion

Aragorn awoke alone in the dark. He had no memory of where he was or what he might be doing there. Every muscle in his body ached from sleeping on cold stones. Rubbing his eyes, he noticed that his injured hands were swathed in strips of cloth. The fabric felt familiar, rather like that of his best shirt in fact. He wondered vaguely who had tended to them. He certainly couldn't remember doing it. It must have been Denethor, he decided sleepily.

Denethor!

The events of the last few days came rushing back to him: Rána, Mordor, the Nazgûl and Denethor. But where was the man?

Aragorn did not recall exactly when he had dozed off, but he felt sure that the Man of Gondor had been there. He certainly was not now. Though the cave was now utterly black, Aragorn knew that he was alone. The ranger could hear the sound of his own breathing echoing off the cramped walls. If he held his breath, it was as silent as a crypt.

In the midst of wondering where the other man had gone, a horrible thought struck him. What if he were dead?

Aragorn sat up abruptly and began to grope about the cave. He could hear his heart pounding over the rustling gravel. His hand brushed across the edge of a piece of cloth. Denethor? He carefully felt out its shape. No, just my pack, he thought; the cave is empty.

He sighed and leaned against the wall, counting under his breath. The ranger decided to give the other man the count of six hundreds to get back. Otherwise, Aragorn would go looking for him. Though how he would find a lone man, garbed in grey, in the dark, was a mystery. At four hundred and sixty-eight, a rock clattered just outside the cave. A moment later, he heard the sound of something attempting to move quietly through the thorn trees.

The ranger's sword hissed softly as he drew it. Before he could ready himself, a familiar voice asked "Thorongil?"

"Aye," he answered, sheathing his blade. Stones rustled at the entrance, and Aragorn rose to meet the other man. "Where were you?" he asked.

"Discovering where we are," Denethor explained shortly. He still used the Orcish blade as a cane. Aragorn could hear the clink of metal on rock every time the Steward's son shifted his weight. He almost asked how Denethor felt. "Are you ready to continue?" he said.

"I am," replied the Man of Gondor in a tone that implied he knew exactly what the question meant. "And you?"

The ranger stretched, testing for injuries. Everything still ached but nothing felt broken. He nodded, then, realising that the other man could not see him, said "In a moment, yes." Finding his pack, he shoved in any loose possessions. He wrapped the pot in a shirt, so that it would not rattle. "What did you see out there?" he asked, sliding on the pack.

Denethor grunted. "Very little," he said. "Night has fallen and there are no stars."

Once again, they struck out to the south. Moving as quietly as they could, they said nothing beyond what was necessary. Even though Aragorn knew the way, their pace was painfully slow. Denethor now walked unaided, but he had not regained his former strength.

They stopped just before moonrise. Denethor had found Aragorn's provisions while he slept, but the ranger had not eaten since the day before. "We will need to ration this," he said as he passed the Man of Gondor a small portion of bread, meat and cheese. "It will be seven more nights before we leave this land."

"No hunting," agreed Denethor. "I have heard that the Dark Lands corrupt all that live in them."

Aragorn shuddered, remembering some of the twisted creatures that he had encountered on his last visit. "We will have enough to last without hunting."

They ate in silence for a moment. "What of water?" the Steward's son asked suddenly. "We have yet to find a stream."

"There is one not a league ahead," said the ranger confidently, mentally adding, I think. It had after all been over five years since he had last seen it. He sighed inwardly as he watched the moon rise behind a thin layer of cloud and smoke. I hate this place, he thought. I spent too long here last time and I wished nothing better than to never see it again.

Fortunately, the stream turned out to run exactly where Aragorn had said it would be. It babbled and splashed down the rocks with a cheerfulness that seemed entirely out of place. Neither of them had seen anything so appealing in days. They drank their fill and replenished their water skins.

"Can we expect more of these?" Denethor asked, glimmering droplets falling from his hair.

"Every few leagues," said the ranger, tucking the swollen skins into his pack. "And the water is all as good as this. The streams are tainted near the Morgul Vale, but we are safely past that." He rose and started walking.

"You seem well acquainted with this area," The Man of Gondor said softly as he followed.

Aragorn, thinking of where best to hide for the day, shrugged. "I should be," he responded casually. "I spent close to a year spying out the Dark Lands."

Denethor stopped dead in his tracks. "Why?" he asked sharply.

Aragorn turned, studying the other man's features through the gloom. Denethor had schooled his face to a cool mask and darkness hid any trace of emotion. The Northerner considered how he should answer, deciding on unadorned truth. "Many reasons," he said, cautious now. "For the most part, I wanted to learn what I could of the land and its occupants. I observed construction, troop movements, settlements." He smiled wryly. "I also discovered several sites that could be used for an ambush, for which I am now grateful."

"As am I," murmured the Steward's son, his voice so soft that Aragorn barely heard it. He was not sure that he was supposed to. Before he could begin to think of a response, Denethor spoke again. "You say that you spent many moons skulking in this cursed darkness." His voice now sounded harsh. "To what end? Who was this information for? We certainly saw no part of it in the White City."

Aragorn felt a pang of guilt. His knowledge of the devices of Mordor would probably have been of great help to the West. "I would have sent word to you on my return," he said, not liking how he sounded. He should not need to defend his actions. He would have sent the information earlier if he could have. "I had not sure means to deliver it to you, save returning myself," he added, "And I was travelling in the opposite direction." In truth, he had learned what he could on the request of Gandalf, but he was not about to mention that. Denethor and the Grey Wizard had never been friends.

The Man of Gondor shook his head derisively. Clearly, he could see no reason that Aragorn would not put the City before all else. Denethor opened his mouth to retort, but paused, thinking better of it. "This is neither the time nor the place for such discussion," he said. "Let us first escape this cursed place." He gestured for the ranger to lead the way, and they continued their journey. But his words left no doubt that he would continue the debate at a later time.

Aragorn did not look forward to it.


	14. Of Dreams and Disguises

On the dawning of the fifth day, the travellers found a dense bramble patch under which to hide. As it was Aragorn's turn to take first watch, Denethor settled onto the coarse ground to rest. Disciplined even in sleep, he lay flat on his back, legs straight, and hands folded on his breast. To Aragorn he looked as though he had been laid out for a funeral.

Though if that were the case, someone needed to have words with the embalmers. The Son of the Steward desperately needed a wash, shave and change of clothes, not that the Son of Kings fared any better. Though they had not yet seen anything hunting them, it surprised Aragorn that his smell alone had not given them away. He wondered if he would ever become used to this covering of grime that warriors seemed to acquire.

Sitting cross-legged in the dirt, he set his mind to imagining a hot, soapy bath in Rivendell. He could not close his eyes for fear of drifting off, so the vision was less then perfect. Still, several hours passed swiftly in this contemplation.

Aragorn had moved on to a sun-warmed lake, when something hit his knee. He sprang to a crouch, his sword drawn before he had time to think. He did not understand how anything could have come this close. Part of his attention may have devoted itself to warm pools, but the rest had kept watch vigilantly. The low thicket roof tugged at his hair as he turned, searching.

He scanned the brush, finding nothing. Only then did he glance down to discover what had struck him. Denethor's hand, as it turned out. The other man had stirred in his sleep, casting his arm out as though reaching for something. Aragorn sighed and sat back down, naked blade across his knees. He was not usually this tense. It seemed that days of icy silence had begun to erode his nerves. Closing his eyes for a moment, he concentrated on the rhythm of his heart. It beat quickly, but he took long, measured breaths to slow it.

He hoped that the rest of his watch would pass peacefully. Denethor, it seemed, had other plans. His movements had merely signalled the beginning of the dark vision that now gripped him. Once again, his lips moved, forming a name. Only this time, he had the strength to give it voice. The word was indistinct, but definitely audible.

Curious, Aragorn leaned closer. He felt a little guilty for eavesdropping, but not enough to stop him.

"Finduilas," he heard.

Aragorn frowned. He wondered who she was, and why she was foremost in Denethor's thoughts. The name sounded familiar, even aside from the historical reference to Turin's Lady. It brought vague images of a heart shaped face and black hair. One of the Ladies in the White City's court? he wondered. But I know most of them. From the Swan City then? He shook his head, he could not remember. With few exceptions, and one in particular, most ladies seemed as one to him.

He wondered what he should do to calm the other man. Soft words often ended nightmares, but he didn't think that his voice would help. Glancing at the sun, Aragorn decided that his watch had ended anyway. He gently shook Denethor awake.

Waking was one of the rare times that Aragorn ever saw the Steward's Son display obvious emotion. He watched as Denethor's expression shifted from confusion to annoyance to resignation, before composing itself to a cool mask. "What news?" he asked, sitting up and stretching stiff muscles.

Aragorn shrugged. "Nothing," he said, "Though I have not been out of this thicket. Perhaps one of us should look."

A slight frown crossed Denethor's face. "To move in daylight would risk being seen," he said after a moment's consideration. "But I suppose we must take that chance." Without another word, he slipped into the branches, leaving Aragorn alone in their den.

The ranger had half risen, intending to go himself. Now he shook his head slightly and crawled over to his pack. Rations began to run low, but there would be enough. There would have to be. As he finished setting out Denethor's morning share, a rustle of brush and a soft call marked the other man's return.

"I saw no sign of life," Denethor said before Aragorn had a chance to ask. As the Man of the North passed him food, he nodded brief thanks before wolfing it down. "Thorongil," he said after he had finished, "There are cliffs ahead. They look treacherous. Will we need to go around them?"

Aragorn was looking for a patch of ground that might be softer than the rest. He shook his head. "No, we must travel over them," he said. "They are formed of a long spur that extends to the east out of the Mountains of Shadow. It would take days and our food runs low as it is." Giving his search up as hopeless, he chose the place where the Steward's Son had been sleeping minutes before. It seemed to hold the fewest sharp rocks. He laid down his folded cloak to take the edge off those that remained. "Let us speak of this in the mor... when I wake," he said as he stretched out. Seeing how well Denethor liked that idea, he added, "I have crossed them before, and with no great difficulty."

Denethor still didn't look happy, but relented enough to let the ranger sleep. "As you wish. I will wake you at dusk." His voice sounded colder than usual.

Aragorn sighed faintly, stabbed by a brief pang of guilt. Not that he had lied. He had crossed that pass before, only not at night and not with a drained companion. He felt sure that he could make it. If Denethor could not, the ranger would have to hoist him. Aragorn sighed again, thinking of the reaction that would get. Ah well, he thought, concerns for a later time.

Still, as he drifted off, his mind whirled with images of knots and ropes.

* * *

"This is such a charming place," Aragorn said as he watched sunset stain the smoke the murky red of dried blood. He sat breaking his fast and looking at the sky through a brief gap in the brambles. When his companion did not respond, he rose, brushing the last crumbs from his hands. "Let us go then."

The last light had left the sky when they emerged from their hiding place. Denethor gazed up at the dark hills that loomed before them. "Where is this pass?" he asked.

Aragorn pointed to the south. "Just there," he said. "But we will have to start into the hills east of here, once we come to a dry streambed."

It turned out that they had slept only a few furlongs from the place they sought. The path of an old stream disappeared into the hills. Aragorn could not yet make out the mouth of the ravine, but he knew it was there, somewhere. A wind from the north had carried ash and other debris from Orodruin and now it collected in the shallow bed. The companions had to stay atop the bank to avoid leaving a trail. At the foot of the cliffs lay great grey drifts, looking almost like snow in the dim light. They were lower at the dark mouth of the ravine, but the ash still piled more than ankle deep.

Denethor surveyed it, brows slightly furrowed. "We will leave a trail," he said.

"I know," Aragorn answered. "It cannot be helped. The ash has many layers. Smoothing over our tracks would only disturb it further."

The other man nodded. The tracks of two men could mean many things; there were many that lived in the Lands of Shadow. An obviously covered trail could have far fewer explanations. "What did you do when last you passed this way?" Denethor asked after a moment of thought.

The Ranger shrugged. "I simply walked through it," he said. "A fortnight's worth of wind can obliterate any mark." Smiling wryly, he added, "At the time, I did not have the Servants of Shadow pursuing me."

Denethor did not return the smile, but continued to stare at the ground. He kicked the edge of a drift with his toe, stirring up a small grey cloud. "Does this extend very far back into the ravine?" he asked.

"No," said Aragorn. "The stream follows a fault in the rock; it cuts back into the cliffs at a sharp angle." He gestured to the Southwest. "This outward wall prevents most drifts from forming."

"It does not seem that we have much choice," said Denethor. He sprang over the streambed, stumbling as he landed. Recovering, he continued to talk as if nothing had happened. "It does not seem as deep on this side." Walking carefully to create as little disturbance as possible, he started up the middle of the channel.

Aragorn followed. The bare rock of the bank proved sound footing, and he landed lightly. He wondered at Denethor's misstep. It would seem that the Man of Gondor had not recovered as much strength as he thought he had. The Northerner sighed faintly, yet another thing to watch. Putting that concern aside, he concentrated on putting his feet precisely in the other man's footsteps. Despite his care, disturbed ash soon filled the air, making breathing difficult. Aragorn sincerely regretted having tied his Haradrim scarf onto Rána's straw decoy. Cursing between coughs, he tore a strip off the edge of his shirt and tied it across his nose and mouth. Denethor fared rather better, walking first and keeping ahead of the dust.

Fortunately, the ash only spread about a thirty yards from the cliffs and they were soon through it. Once around the corner, they found themselves on bare rock again. Aragorn sighed, untying his mask and vainly trying to shake it clean. "Perhaps when that cloud settles, it will do something to obscure our trail." Hearing no answer, he glanced at Denethor. His companion leaned against the far wall, resting and looking up into the night.  
Aragorn glanced up as well. The rough rock rose steeply, quickly disappearing into the darkness. Though the walls eventually gave way to the sky, he could see no star. Neither could he see anything worth staring at. "Denethor?" he asked after a moment.

The other man started. "What?" he asked sharply. Before Aragorn could say anything, the Man of Gondor seemed to come back to himself. As if there had been no break in conversation, he said, "We must hope that they still do not know exactly in which direction we escaped." He pushed away from the wall. "Still, we had better leave this place."

Aragorn nodded in agreement and led the way. "The way to the path lies not far ahead," he said. Easily wide enough for two men to walk abreast at the entrance, the ravine narrowed as it ran back into the hills. After perhaps a furlong, the ranger had to take off his pack and twist sideways to pass a tight point. "Here," he said when he was through. "This is a good place to climb." He set down his pack and glanced around. A little wider here, and if he remembered rightly, the walls did not rise as high. Yes, he thought, this is the place.

The broad shouldered Denethor had a little more trouble squeezing in. He only made it due to recently lost weight. "Climb?" he asked dubiously, again looking up.

Aragorn nodded. "Yes," he added, realising that the gloom obscured his gesture. "In a manner of speaking." He hesitated before asking, "Denethor?"

"Yes?"

"How much do you know of climbing?"

Aragorn heard a faint sigh in the darkness. "Very little," Denethor admitted grudgingly.

Perfect, the Ranger thought bleakly. This is going to be a joy.


	15. Of Rope and Resentment

The flickering light of the candle cast wild shadows on the cliffs. Though the light shone only faintly, it seemed to blaze after the total darkness. Aragorn hoped that no night spy would fly over. He had lit the thing out of necessity. He could think of no other way to show Denethor the complex knots. Fortunately, the Steward's son had an excellent memory. He only needed to observe a task once in order to learn it.

Aragorn finished tying a harness around his body and asked, "Do you understand?" The other man nodded, and he continued. "If I fall, will you remember the route I described?" This time, Denethor simply favoured him with an annoyed glance. They had already reviewed this several times. Aragorn could tell that his companion did not like being fussed over. Now I know how Gandalf must have felt, the ranger mused. Aloud he said, "That is it then, just." He hesitated, not sure how to put this. "Denethor, if I fall, I may not be able to try again. If they find me here." his voice trailed off.

Denethor understood. "They will not take you alive," he promised.

The ranger nodded, relieved. He ducked his head and laid the rest of the rope around his neck. He slipped his arm through as well, letting the coil rest snugly at his side. He removed his boots and socks and tucked them in his pack, before setting it in a corner, out of the way. A small sigh escaped his lips. He felt a little nervous, but ready.

A few paces up the ravine, the walls narrowed again. There they stood a little under an arm span apart. Aragorn looked up, but could not make out many details. If memory served him, the rift rose straight here, neither widening nor narrowing. Glancing back, he saw Denethor standing in a pool of light, watching him intently. The Steward's Son nodded an acknowledgement before blowing out the candle.

Finding no other reason to delay, he stretched out both arms and braced them against the walls. He then placed a bare foot against the rock, about four hand spans from the ground. Supporting his weight on his other three limbs, he repeated his action with his other foot, lifting this one a little higher. Moving thus, he slowly, meticulously made his way upwards.

After only a few yards, his arms started to ache. The souls of his feet and his freshly healed palms and felt hot and raw. The rock here took a different formation than that further north. It had a rough, grainy texture, rather than the jagged edges of the other cliff. After three score yards, he could feel his muscles trembling. At full strength, a short climb like this would have presented little problem, but now he had to concentrate on each movement. He had fallen into a pattern. Thinking with each move: Brace both feet and a hand, move the other hand up. Do not look down. Brace both hands and a foot, move the other foot up. Do not flinch each time you let go. Brace both feet and a hand, move the other hand up. You have to keep going. He wrapped his mind tightly in that mantra, blocking the pain.

A break in the pattern startled him awake. Moving his left hand, he found not rough rock, but empty space. Fortunately, he noticed this before he rested any weight there. A little further down, his fingers found the top of the cliff. The right edge rose only a little higher and he soon had a good grip on both. He paused there for a moment, mustering his remaining strength. Taking a deep breath, he swung across the rift. His left hand let go of the rock and stretched as far over the other edge as it could. After a brief struggle, he managed to get both forearms on top of the cliff. The sheer ravine offered little purchase, and his feet kept slipping. The only sounds were skin scrabbling against stone and his own ragged breathing. Concentrating on one final move, he twisted sideways, throwing his leg over the edge as well. He rolled over and was safe.

Aragorn lay on his back, panting. He gazed at the sky, mind dazed, trying to catch up with what he had just done. Clouds filled the skies, offering no break for guiding stars. He knew the moon now did not rise until almost dawn. After what felt like too little rest, he rolled to his knees.

The night clung so tightly about him that he had grope his way through it. Finding the ravine, he edged as close to it as he dared. The rope still hung in a neat coil over his shoulder, securely attached to him by the harness. Leaning forward, he unslung the line and let it drop. He heard a faint slap as it hit the bottom, then felt three sharp tugs a moment later. Pulling arm over arm, he brought the rope back up. He wished that he had had more time to rest his arms, but at least his small pack did not overly strain them. Though it did seem heavier than when he had last lifted it.

Denethor's boots explained that mystery. He felt them tied to the outside when he undid the rope. After he dropped the line back down, he took the time to replace his own boots, drink and feel out a safer place. By the time he felt another tug, he had securely wedged himself in a shallow gully. He took in all the slack, wrapping the extra rope around him.

He maintained this tension as Denethor climbed, steadily drawing the line towards him. Progress seemed painfully slow, and the climber frequently paused to rest. Waiting was making a mess of Aragorn's nerves. His mind kept repeating images of Denethor plunging to his death, taking the ranger with him. He imagined the line suddenly going taut, and yanking out of his hands. It would pull him up and out of his shelter, dragging him across the rough stone. Then the edge. And nothing.

He sifted his feet, bracing them more firmly, keeping his senses alert. He realised that he was chewing his lip and stopped. This proved fortunate. When Denethor did fall, he had a firm grip on the rope. He managed to keep hold but lurched forward, slamming his chin into his knees.

Aragorn's mind held only one thought: Hold on! Whether he meant it for himself or the climber, he could not be sure.

The line started to slip through his hands, tearing at the new flesh. He tried to grip harder, but could not seem to hold it tightly enough. The loops around his chest tightened, squeezing his ribs and lungs. Every breath took a great effort.

Aragorn had just started to wonder how he was supposed to pull the other man up, when the line went slack. He has fallen, was his first thought. But tugging the line lightly, he found a weight still on the other end. Denethor had recovered and resumed his climb.

Only a few minutes later, Aragorn began to hear laboured breathing. Shortly after that, though it seemed an age to the ranger, he heard the scuffle and thud that marked the end of Denethor's ascent.

Aragorn wanted to spring forward and greet the other man, but he could not. Sitting still after such a strenuous climb had cramped every one of his muscles. They had all locked in place and refused to move. He had to flex each limb carefully before he moved it. Even than, any large movement caused a stab of pain.

Eventually, he managed to crawl over to the ravine's edge. As Aragorn had, Denethor lay on his back, panting. Just then, Mount Doom gave forth a great burst of flame in the distance. The faint light only lingered for a moment, but it proved long enough for Aragorn to see his companion.

Denethor seemed in reasonably good health, considering. His shirt had torn, leaving a shoulder exposed and bleeding. His face held a grey tint, and his dark eyes stared up, wide and blank. The harness had slipped and now dug into his skin. Denethor tried to pull it loose, but his hands shook too violently to hold anything. He saw Aragorn, and their eyes met for an instant before darkness descended again.

Aragorn untied the knots, freeing the other man, and then sat next to him. "I do not think that we will have to pass anything worse than that," he said, trying to sound reassuring. As he spoke, he untangled himself and started to re-coil the rope. "We will need to walk for a few more days, but after that lies safety." And a six hundred-foot pass, he recalled but did not mention.

Denethor's breathing had slowed by now, and he managed a grunt. Aragorn felt that it was an appreciative sort of grunt, but he couldn't really tell. He finished coiling and stowed the rope in his pack. Passing Denethor his boots, he said, "I think that we can rest here for a while. It seems a good spot for a quiet meal."

The Man of Gondor coughed before croaking, "Water."

After taking a drink himself, Aragorn gave the skin to the other man. "Save some for your shoulder," he said and started to dig through his pack for food. On finding it, he also uncovered the remains of the shirt they had shredded for bandages.

"Thank you," Denethor said, returning what remained of the water.

Aragorn quickly bathed and bandaged the wound, then passed out midnight rations. They sat together on the rock, eating in silence. When they finished, they stayed and rested for a time. Aragorn relaxed, he could no longer feel the tension that had existed between them. Without thinking, he asked, "Who is Finduilas?"

Denethor started. "What?" he said, sounding almost guilty.

"Finduilas," Aragorn repeated, "Who is she?" When he heard no response, he continued. "You say her name in your sleep and it seems familiar, but I do not recall her."

For a moment, the ranger did not think the other man would respond. At length, Denethor said, "Lady Finduilas, eldest child of Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth. I wed her not two years after you left."

Now Aragorn remembered. "Yes," he said, "She came to the City but once, on the occasion of your sister's wedding. She seemed small and delicate, with pale green eyes. Her brother travelled with her." He smiled at the memory. "What a wild one he was."

"Imrahil has matured since then," Denethor said gravely, but his voice held a note of amusement.

"I hope so," said Aragorn, laughing softly. "He is a supposed to be a knight and heir of the Swan City. So you are married, congratulations! Any children?"

"Aye, a son. He will have known eighteen moons in a few days." Denethor said. "When I left, he could run a little and say a few words."

Aragorn peered at his companion, trying to make out his expression through the gloom. He had never heard him talk thus. The Steward's Son had always spoken with pride, but ever for himself or his City, never for another. The darkness proved too complete and the ranger could not tell Denethor's thoughts. "What is his name?" he asked.

He could just see a smile tug at the normally harsh features. "Boromir," said Denethor. "They will call him the Second when he rules the White City."

"Oh," was all the Son of Kings could think to say. Not wishing to return to the chill that had marked their journey thus far, Aragorn searched his mind for something else to talk about. Silence followed. "Boromir son of Denethor," he said at last, "A good name, very traditional." If not particularly original, he added silently.

"Yes," said Denethor. "It is." From his voice, it seemed that the ranger's discomfort had not escaped him. "I wished to name him Pelendur, but my Lady Wife would not have it."

Aragorn winced. The last Steward named Pelendur had lived almost a thousand years before. History remembered him most for rejecting a claim on the Throne of Gondor made by Arvedui, a king form the North. The message behind that choice could hardly be called subtle.


	16. Of Rings and Reputations

Aragorn missed his footing and stumbled forward, barely catching himself before he fell. He sighed and glanced back. He could just see Denethor a half dozen paces behind him, still upright. They were in the midst of descending the south slope of the hills. Though not possessing the sheer cliffs of the north side, the descent had proved treacherous. Exhausted and unable to see well in the gloom, they stumbled often.

Aragorn's wandering thoughts did not help. The moment of peace that they had shared had vanished. Though the tension between them had not grown, neither had it abated. The Ranger found himself once again remembering of that brief camaraderie. He tried to think of same way to recall it in more than just memory. Turning the problem over and over in his head, he could not find a solution. There existed no words that could gain Denethor's trust. Rather, Aragorn knew such words, but they formed a pledge that he would not make, that he could not make.

As he sat watch that morning, Aragorn ran what he might say through his mind. 'I swear this to you as the last living heir of Elendil and on the honour of that once great House. I will renounce any right that I might have to the Throne in the White City. Nor will any of my own sons to be King. I will keep them in ignorance of their heritage until they are of an age to swear this same oath. I will bind them to their word as Fëanor of old bound his sons. You and your blood will have the rule of Gondor and her tributaries for as long as your line continues.'

Right, he thought, rubbing his eyes tiredly. And I will forget all that Elrond and my mother told me about the coming Doom. I will ignore the prophecy that tells me I must take part in that Doom. Instead, I will be content to live out my days as a nameless wanderer. Arwen, I am sure, will be delighted to wander with me. We might even have a happy life together. Unless her Lord Father puts her on the next Westbound ship. Or that the Dark Lord conquers and enslaves Middle-Earth.

Abruptly, Aragorn rolled to his knees, trying to clear his mind. He winced as his tired limbs creaked in protest; he had been awake too long. But it did not take long to crawl to the edge of the ledge they hid under, and he needed to move. Looking out, he could see naught but grey. Acre upon acre of barren stone marched off into the low-hanging overcast. He wondered how even orcs could survive in this waste.

The Ranger crawled back and fumbled for his pack. Reaching inside, he felt for a small lump in the lining. Had he not sewn it there himself, he would not have found the small pocket. He had hidden it in the seam where the straps attached. Now he tore the cloth away and removed its contents. His fingers traced the double snake and crown as he slipped the ring on his finger.

He found his former position by feeling out the warmed stone. He made sure to sit on it exactly. The weather had turned cold again. The ranger reflected that it was fortunate that they travelled by night. It kept them warm. He smiled briefly. He had just had a vision: the look on Denethor's face at the notion of sleeping close to share heat. Imagining how that conversation might go kept him entertained until the end of his watch.

They did not say more than a few words to each other when Denethor woke, nor when they started out again. But even though silence hung between them for most of the night, Aragorn's heart felt lighter. Food and sleep, it seemed had lifted his spirits. The metal on his hand reminded him of his purpose. He began considering his companion, other ways to talk to him, other words to use.

He had thought of not saying anything at all. He could stay silent; let the enmity between them remain as it was. But he knew that it would not simply linger, but fester and grow. Someday it could very well cost lives, or even cause another kinslaying.

At least the terrain provided no obstacles that night. They skirted the feet of the mountains, staying on more or less level ground. Rock outcroppings and a few snarled groves of thorn trees blocked their way at times, but they were easily avoided. Aragorn walked without attention, thinking hard.

As the first light of dawn crept into the sky, he drew a deep breath and said, "Denethor."

The other man, walking beside and a little behind him, stopped completely. He seemed to have noted something strange in Aragorn's tone. "Yes?" he asked.

The ranger also halted, turning to face his companion. "We need to talk," he said after a moment's hesitation.

Denethor also hesitated for a moment. But "This is neither the time nor the place," was all he said before he started walking again.

"Very well," said Aragorn. He paused before continuing, glancing up at the stars for reassurance. But the clouds still kept even a glimpse of them from him. Sighing, he started out to overtake Denethor.

Aragorn knew that their pace increased every day. Despite short rations and long nights, Denethor grew stronger. Now he could easily match the Ranger stride for stride. At dawn, they had passed the crevice he had planned on sheltering in by a good league. Instead, the companions hid in a small cave worn in the cliff side.

As soon as they arrived, Denethor sat, legs crossed, and looked expectantly at Aragorn. He had the look of a man who anticipated something mildly entertaining, if improbable. The ranger had seen a similar expression on his mother's face while he made excuses for staying out too late. That had been when he was a boy of eight. He had found that attitude annoying then. Forty years later, from this man, it was outright infuriating.

Still, Aragorn spoke, trying to remember the words he had planned. "Your son, Pelen..." he stopped then corrected himself, "Boromir, what will you teach him?"

Denethor paused. Aragorn could see a dozen possible answers occurring to him. "Everything that I know," he said at last; "And what the scholars and master of arms can teach. He will grow to be a great Lord."

Aragorn smiled slightly. "A great Lord or a great King?" he demanded.

Other than slightly narrowed eyes, Denethor's expression did not falter at the challenge. "A great Lord," he said firmly, "There are no longer Kings in Gondor."

Aragorn also kept his face still. He could ill afford to lose this game. "And were a King to return?" he asked. "Will you teach your son all the obligations of a Steward?"

"I will," the Steward's son said, steel in his voice. "Boromir will learn the traditions of his ancestors, even those that have lived beyond their usefulness."

The words hung in the air. Aragorn could think of no way around them, other than an outright statement of his intention. His appeal to Denethor's sense of duty and honour had only dug the ranger deeper. He knew that anything he said now would only make his position worse, so he remained silent. He hated leaving the last word to his rival.

While he was thinking, he traced the snakes encircling his finger. The ring had been in his family for some eight thousand years. He had sorely missed wearing it in his years of wandering. He had not wanted to risk anyone recognising the heirloom. Now he was going home.

"A band of metal does not a king make," Denethor commented dryly.

Aragorn's hand froze; he had not noticed his own actions. Recovering quickly, he asked, "Not even a crown?"

The man of Gondor inclined his head. "A crown does," he conceded. "But a ring does not, no matter who gave it to whose ancestor."

"And a sceptre?" Aragorn pressed.

Denethor's lips quirked into a sort of smile. "Certainly," he said, "If one wished to be a King of Arnor." He paused before adding unkindly, "Though I do not imagine that anyone would."

The Northerner felt a surge of anger. Failing to rein it in, he snapped, "There are good men in the Old Kingdom. They have guarded Gondor's back for near three thousand years."

The other man's smile widened. "I am thankful for it," he said, "And I wish you the joy of them."

Aragorn felt like screaming. He remembered now how hard his days in the City had been. The son of Ecthelion had always been thus, proud, swift and terribly sharp-tongued. The ranger paused for a moment, to gather his wits. "When the Shadow comes," he said, trying to sound reasonable, "The Race of Man will need to unite."

Denethor laughed bitterly. "Have you not noticed, Thorongil? The Shadow has already come. The Men of Gondor have fought him for a thousand years." He glanced at Aragorn's ring, a hostile gleam slipping through his mask. "If your people wish to aid us, they will be made most welcome in my City."

Right, thought the Ranger, I remember your "welcome." He had had just about enough of this. "The Men of the North will not unite behind a Steward," he snapped.

"And the Men of the South will not follow a houseless wanderer," Denethor shot back. "The strife that he would bring would destroy us."

"Not if the Steward supported him," Aragorn said.

Denethor did not answer, but rolled over and pretended to sleep.

The last living heir of Elendil ground his teeth viciously. There could be no resolution.


	17. Epilogue

Dark wings beat across the clouded sky, too high to cast a shadow on the Planes of Rohan. Most came from the South, near the mouth of the Great River, but there were others. One by one, the crebain returned to their master.

Saruman listened to most of their reports gravely but could not restrain a smile at some. At last, something was going right. The cost had been high, he had sacrificed many of his agents in its pursuit, yet he would have willingly paid thrice the price for this result.

His spies dared not enter the Land of Shadow, but they watched its borders closely. His birds had marked the daylight ascent of pass at the River Poros; others had tracked the crossing of South Ithilien and the Anduin. It seemed that the two Men had barely spoken a word to each other the entire time. The fisherwoman said that the hostility between the strangers who hired her boat could be felt at half a league. Short words had been spoken before the dark one had started for the North and the other for the City.

The two could never be reconciled now. Aragorn would never again gain influence in the White City, and the union of the two kingdoms was utterly impossible now, even if it hadn't been before.

Of course, he had hoped that they would both be captured or killed, preferably both, it had been the original plan. It seemed that he had underestimated the Ranger's abilities, again. However, he would happily accept a promise of disarray and civil war.

When the two kingdoms lay in ruin, he knew who they would turn to for aid.


End file.
